


In the Forests Of the Night

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [18]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-19
Updated: 2009-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 09:37:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nine times of ten it's foreplay when they fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Forests Of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the same universe as _A Raising in the Sun_, _Necessary Evils_, et. al. (See the [Barbverse Timeline](http://sleepingjaguars.com/buffy/viewpage.php?page=timeline) for specifics.) It contains spoilers for previous works in the series.

Nine times of ten it's foreplay when they fight, fists and fangs striking sparks. Tenth time, it's a war of words, ice daggers striking straight for the heart, cold as poison and twice as deadly. Some say the world will end in fire, but they've not met the Slayer.

He yells "Get your soldier boy to wire me up again, why don't you?" as he slams out the front door. "Have your tame little fuck toy back!" Hears that desperate little catch of her breath behind him, the one that means he's really sodding hurt her this time (and not the first time, either, is it, mate, 'cause you _know_ that sound) and part of him withers in shame while the rest of him grins with sick savage satisfaction _serves the bitch right after_ not thinking about _after_ just get on the fucking bike and let out the fucking clutch and never mind you're smoking in the rays of the setting sun (burn to death and _then_ she'll be bloody sorry!)

It's dark at Willy's (always dark, innit?) And there's (not nearly enough) whiskey - fire in the belly if nowhere else - keep it coming, you weasel-faced bastard and thank God someone's still scared of him. She knows where he is and if she gave a fuck she'd come after (yeah, right, after what you said?) (And what about what she said?)

_You don't get it. You're never going to get it. I've just got to accept that,_ all pinched-up and prissy-mouthed, like all he is to her's a burden, a responsibility, (and doesn't that burn in the gut like bad whiskey) the morally challenged vampire she's charged with shepherding through life, do this Spike, don't do that Spike, don't you know that's _wrong_? Just a slave to sodding duty, our Slayer, no end to it, the one thing that'd make him whole in her eyes long since gone up in flames, a willing sacrifice upon her altar. Gift of the sodding Magi. His choice, and he'd do it again, but he'd rather rip those eyes from her skull than see pity in them. Does she have any sodding idea how hard it is, every day, all day long (bloody right I want another bottle, I said keep it coming, din't I?), a rat caught in an invisible maze? Not a buggering clue. All easy as pie to her, can see it plain like those insects on the Discovery - all the patterns on the flowers, in the ultraviolet, is it? Light he can't see.

Oh, Christ, on about the flowers again. Way too fucking drunk, or not nearly drunk enough. Split the difference and have another round.

The world's spinning when he roars out in a shower of gravel or maybe it's just the parking lot. Accept it, she says, and why not? He wants to fuck something and kill something, not necessarily in that order. She doesn't like him driving drunk but sod her anyway (looks the other way when I nick fags or cheat at pool, let the poor tame vamp have what fun he can, like it's therapy, like it's sodding methadone, like a pack of stolen Marlboros is any fucking substitute for the sweet stink of terror and a heart beating, beating, slowing, stilling as life runs out beneath your fangs) 'cause tonight he's doing something properly evil for once, not 'cause he's fucked up _again_ (and how? Not like _he_ killed the bloke, that's for certain) but because he's chosen it. What it is he's not sure, but he'll find something.

Down Wilkins, onto Lincoln, out onto the state highway. _You Are Now Leaving Sunnydale, Don't Let The Door Hit You In the Arse On The Way Out._ One minute the wind's in his hair and the road unspools before him, an endless, weaving black tunnel jagged with yellow lightning. The next a startled, speed-blurred face looms out of the darkness and he's gunning the engine and slamming on the brakes at the same time as _run 'em down!_ and _you're on a motorcycle, you berk, swerve!_ race each other from the echoing hollow where his conscience used to be to his whiskey-soaked nerves, and he's screeching, skidding, spinning. He rips through the guard rail, leaps the ditch and crashes into the weed-choked field beyond. The front wheel hits a (pothole? Well cover? Heffalump trap?) and the bike fights him like a mad thing

bloody

fucking

_hell!_

he comes down, hundred and seventy pounds of vampire and half a ton of motorcycle, more than the traffic will bear, anyway, and the engine roars in his ears as he feels the bike go out from under him in a rumble of dust and stone.

***

Dark. (Always dark, innit? That's why he wants her so badly, 'cause she shines so.) Gasp for breath and blink up through the settling dust till a lungful sets him coughing, and it _hurts_, thank God, it _hurts,_ his chest aches and his head throbs and his leg, his leg's on fire, not like the last time the world fell in. Pain's good, pain's right, pain means (helpless wheelchair chip in the head never never never again) his spine's in one piece. Light-fuzzed patch of sky overhead, (nicely situated, burn him to a crisp when the sun comes up) and all around the wreckage of his fall, dirt and rocks and shattered pieces of guard rail, the Triumph half-buried in rubble and him pinned beneath it all.

Broken ribs, broken leg, broken head - or no, just the hangover coming on. Bloody hell. Scrabble in the stone till fingernails bleed, but it's no use, no leverage, caught good and proper in this (coffin, coal mine, ruined church) with no one to know or care he's trapped in some forgotten fag-end of the Hellmouth's labyrinth of tunnels and for Christ's sake stop _panting_, you stupid git, takes more than a few tons of rock to keep Spike down. There, that spar - part of the guard rail, would have gone straight through him if he'd landed two feet to the left but now it's the saving of him if only he can reach it, if only oh bloody hell it _hurts_ -

"Hello?"

He stops, fingers straining uselessly, inches from the splintered wood, breath harsh in his own ears. Heartbeat. Footsteps. Slip-slide-scrabble in the dark, over the stones, over the coal.

"Can you hear me? Are you OK? I had to find another way down, I -"

Heart tripping away, frightened bird in a cage of bone. Hands outstretched, feeling her way blind in the dark. Face, scent, all unfamiliar, no one he knows, no one who knows him (but who does she know?) Can't see him, but he can see her, and how many times has he played that game? "Right here, pet."

"Oh, thank God, you're alive! How badly are you hurt? Should I call 911? I think there's a 7-11 about a mile down the highway with a pay phone - "

"No!" Who knows who'd answer? Might be that Ng bloke or someone else he - (can't kill because BuffyDawnAnyaWillowTaraXander - Xander?-ohchristevenXander might) knows. "I mean, 's not as bad as it looked - " five, ten, twenty, thirty minutes ago, deep-down itch of healing bone already starting, and if his leg's not straightened and set soon (just like after Glory's tower, holed up in the crypt with Jack Daniels and grief for company) it'll heal in a twist and be all to do over again (Xander, with a hammer, in the Magic Box, with Dawn taken for ice cream so she wouldn't hear him scream). "There's a bit of plank here - was thinking I could use it as a lever and get these rocks off."

She steps into the shaft of city-light, wringing her hands. Short dark hair, big dark eyes, bruised flower of a mouth. Too much makeup. Lined face. Not young, not pretty, not his first choice if he'd had a choice (see me now, don't you, bitch?) But she's here and warm and breathing and babbling on ("Jesus, I swear I never saw you coming and I thought I was goner and you damn near stood that bike on its head trying to stop - ") ridiculous in high heels and pedal pushers while she jams the wood beneath the rock. Cheap flashy earrings jingle as she grunts and shoves at the stone and he can smell her sweat, alive and vital under the artificial stink of deodorant shampoo body wash powder perfume. The spar snaps and she trips and topples shrieking down the slope, and the rock creaks and the stone shudders and he claws himself free, his leg a phoenix-pyre of agony but that won't last long -

don't talk don't think just _do it_

William the Bloody lion-eyed in the night, swaying in the rubble (can't shouldn't couldn't walk, no living man anyway), looming over her with a low soft chuckle that's half a growl so her breath catches and her heart speeds oh, music to his ears. "What's your name, love? Always like to know who's done me a good turn."

"Rita," and she stumbles back another step, groping for the wall. Squinting at his (monstrous?) face, unsure in the darkness. "You sure you're all right? You look kinda..."

"Never better," he purrs. "You lived in Sunnydale long?"

"No - " (breathless) "I mean, I just moved here - from L.A." (Better and better) "Shouldn't we call an ambulance or something?"

"Like to thank you personally before we bring the authorities into it. Not every day a bloke's rescued by a fair maiden." (Sorry, neither.)

Back against the wall now (dirt roots mold cold quiet as the grave) nowhere to go, and his leg's still buggered but he's had worse and if he doesn't do this fast he'll (chicken out go soft big grey eyes welling up with tears disappointment fury) - better make certain, yeah? No connections, no guilt not that he's got guilt. "Whereabouts did you live in L.A.? Got friends up there." (Friends may be stretching it.)

She rolls her eyes, snorts, like she'd know his friends in the teeming millions, and that's the idea, you stupid cow. "West Hollywood. Just your kind of neighborhood. If you can walk, maybe we should get-"

"We on a schedule?" Up close and personal, holding her jaw like the fragile, precious thing it is, like sculpture, like crystal, a glass he can shatter with a squeeze and she's scared now, oh, _yeah_. "You ever heard of a bloke called Angel? Plays Kolchak in his spare time?"

Head-shake. Tremble. White-rimmed eyes meeting his own. Could eat her up, right here, right now. Take his time, take his pleasure, no one to interrupt, no one to know. But he's got to be absolutely sure there's no connection here, no six degrees of Buffy Summers. "What about anyone who works for him? Colored bloke, name of Charles Gunn? Used to run a gang in East L.A.? Ever been to a karaoke bar called _Caritas?_"

No, no, no, a thousand times no, but he's got to be certain so he runs through them all - the cheerleader, the bint with the taco fetish. Hank Summers. His girlfriend. Girlfriend's grandmother. David Nabbit, Virginia Bryce, Buffy's Aunt Caroline, Xander's Cousin Carol, Harmony bloody Kendall, and it's all no, she doesn't know any of them, never heard of them please let her go please God whimpering begging crying _no fun if they don't cry_ down on her knees at his feet and his leg burns (one way or another, he'll burn) and his head pounds and at last he backhands her and screams, "There's got to be _someone,_ you bloody stupid bitch! You've got to - "

And she head-butts him in the nads, grabs a rock from the scree-fall and wallops him in the knee with it "Get fucked, you psychotic dickwad!" bad leg folds like a pair of twos and she's off and running

and as she runs he collapses on the stone

laughing

because bloody hell, he's got to laugh, or he'll cry himself sick.

***

Later (tightening the splint on his leg, small hard ungentle hands) Buffy asks him why he didn't kill her.

He shrugs. Takes a drag on his cigarette. "I asked too many questions." Cocks an eyebrow. "Could ask the same of you about me."

Small, secret smile, fire in the darkness. (And this is why he loves her) "Because you asked too many questions."

END 


End file.
